Dreaming part II
I used to hang out at record stores, aimlessly looking, waiting. I used to think life would come to me, but now I know life doesn't come, it just happens. The man at the record store I frequented the most was tall with dark hair and a beard. He'd look at me and shake his head, knowing I'd probably get some Beatles record or The Doors. I wanted to reach out to him and talk, because he was older and could give me some wisdom, tell me stories of his life that I could cling to. Maybe he'd share a cigarette.
When I was a child I wandered the playground alone. Kids were all around me but I could not seem to trust anyone, and so I kept to myself, just wandering. I found an old tree with pools of water at its base, leaves drifting over the liquid glass reflection. I'd sit and stare at the pool, and the dark wooded roots, and the ants and spiders moving in and around. I called it my witches brew and every day I added something to the mix and stir it all up until recess was over. Sometimes mother would walk by on her way home for lunch and I'd cling to the wire fence with fingers dangling out to touch. "Take me home mother."
Home was still in fragments of memories: father and his beer cans flying against the wall, his retching in the bathroom, yelling, fighting, fear, pain, prison. Loneliness.
I had records and books. And dreams. Sometimes dreams are all you have to get you through a day. Sometimes you have to be patient and wait while all the memories and pain fade into a dull ache.
The man must have known I was still in a fragile state of metamorphosis. He was kind, allowing me to hang around. He'd greet me with a smile, even suggest records that he thought I might like. I was smart enough to know that eighteen and forty-something are bad numbers, but I still dreamed of him. Dreaming of him helped me get through each day.